"A Fresh Start"

 

[For brownie lore and background information, click here.]

The brownie slumped down the night-swamped street, the doll's clothes that had been left neatly folded for him in his corner of the old house now tucked under his arm like a bundle of rags. He was cold, and he had already started to despair.

When he glanced up at one point during his walk, he did so intending to ask the heavens for some form of deliverance from his current plight. He did not expect to see a sign already waiting for him.

"'Garage Sale,'" the brownie read aloud. He mumbled the address to himself several times over, until it stuck in his mouth like taffy. There would be a large house there, one that had been emptied of some of its stuff and was ready to be cleaned, one with space that a brownie could fill nicely. He smiled then, took his sorghum-bristle broom out from the bundle on his back, and began twirling it as he resumed his walk. It was a broom well made for sweeping, which made it a fine accessory for a fresh start.

"How Much?"

 

The troll looked like a ball of mud until, having rolled onto the middle of the wave-swept path, it popped open like a pillbug, in this case revealing short, stubby limbs and a face like squished clay. "Not so fast," it said as it stood. "There's a toll to pay if you want to go forward." The group looked at the troll, then at the path ahead, or at least what they could see of it. "What do you say?" the troll asked them. "Do you want to continue?"

"The Hulder-Maiden"

 

[A good source of information about the hulder-folk is D'Aulaires' Book of Trolls, where I learned the story of hulder-women luring humans onto their mystical farms to live in exchange for their souls. This site also has some info about them: http://www.orkneyjar.com/folklore/finfolk/huldre.htm]

The hulder-maiden knew, as she walked into town from the hill under which she lived, that she would stand out among those surroundings and confuse whoever saw her. For one thing, she was gliding along serenely in her skirt, boots, and loose-cut top, while the people outside were shaking their heads with concern at the flood waters filling their town's streets. For another, her tail was showing. It kept slipping out from beneath the hem of her skirt.

A man standing with a camera at the edge of a deeply submerged playground glanced first at the hulder-maiden's tail, then up at her. She stopped in the street to regard him as he took her picture. When he lowered his camera, she saw that he was frowning. She was undeterred.

"It's been a terrible week," she said, joining him at the side of the playground. "I'm sorry for everything your town's been through."

The man's frown relaxed a bit, though he still held his suspicion in front of him like a sword at the ready. "Yeah, well," he said, kicking a stone, "I suppose we got off lucky here, considering everything that's been going on. But still. More and more, as much as I like this world, I just don't think I get it." Hearing that, the hulder-maiden hoped to snare his gaze, by which she would make him love her and then ferry him off to her home beneath the hill. She turned, though, and saw that his gaze had traveled ahead of hers and was stopped at the hairs of her tail, which swept over the sidewalk like the bristles of a broom.

"Can I ask why you're in costume?" he asked, his frown once again tight.

The hulder-maiden thought about how to answer this. "It's not so much a costume as it is... cultural wear," she said carefully. "I simply wished to call to mind thoughts of my homeland during these trying times. It's a lovely place. The fields are always golden, and the cows are always giving milk. The air is just cold enough to make you feel alive."

"And the women have tails," the man said.

The hulder-maiden smiled. "There are many differences between here and there."

The man narrowed his eyes, crouched, and, facing the playground, lifted his camera. "This place you come from sounds pretty incredible," he said. "Is it far?"

"Not at all," said the hulder-maiden. "You could likely walk the distance."

"You don't say. I've never heard of a place like that around here. Tell me, how do you get there?"

The hulder-maiden drew in her breath. "You simply give up your soul."

The man stood so quickly that the hulder-maiden imagined a whip being drawn into a fierce crack and was overtaken by the thought. "Okay, listen," said the man. "I don't know what you're playing at, or if you're making some kind of threat or what, but let me tell you this: you and I are here right now, and in this land, we deal with things like floods and bombings and whatever, and we come back big and strong because that's what happens to our souls when we carry all of that around all the time. So please, please don't tell me that you're some kind of terrorist or something crazy like that, because you are absolutely the most beautiful person I've talked to in a long time, and I don't want to think that someone like you has given up on this world, too."

The man stepped back. He brought his hands to his head and pulled his hair, as if he could pull himself up and keep from collapsing inside. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I don't know where that came from," he said. "It's just, this week--are you all right? Are you okay?"

The hulder-maiden backed away as well. "I'm fine," she said. "I'm sorry. Thank you." Then she turned and ran, thinking of the stories the old hulder-folk told, of the hulder-maidens who had married into man's society and were baptized, who along with the waters of baptism had been given souls. She ran all the way back to the hill she called hers, unsure of what the words spoken between her and the man meant, but feeling heavy and wondering if what she was feeling inside her was like flood water starting to rise.

"The Pole That Wanted to Be a Windmill"

 

[Screw the hiatus. I want my blog back.]

The pole had never heard the entire story, just one element of the plot: that, once upon a time, a man had engaged a windmill in battle. For the pole, it was enough. Even the traffic lights complained about how boring things were, and their lives were among the most colorful in the neighborhood. The pole aspired to the knightly life of a windmill but wasn't sure it was an attainable goal.

"It isn't," a lamppost offered. "There is nothing knightly about you. Why, just look at your bearing, all stiff and wooden." The lamppost then flicked its overhead light on, just in case the pole was having trouble seeing its point.

The pole was given hope one afternoon, when a utility worker nailed a thin red board to one side of it. The board crossed the pole's body, looking a bit like a pair of arms. The pole was armed! Or it was marked, at least. After that, the pole waited months for greatness. But greatness never arrived, and the pole's hopes, like the thin board's red paint, began to fade.

Then came the night of the storm. The wind wailed and the rain clawed and bit, and the pole rocked anxiously in its spot in the ground. "Flooding at the north end of the road," the poles and posts along the street called, their voices becoming part of the storm's untethered groan.

"Flooding at the north end of the road," the would-be windmill repeated as part of the relay. A splinter of a moment after it spoke, it saw the headlights: a car was approaching from the south.

The pole knew what risks the car and its occupants faced if they continued north. It also knew that windmills, especially ones destined to engage in heroic battles, weren't supposed to fall. But the pole could no longer deny the truth: it was neither knightly nor a windmill, and it wasn't designed for combat. It was, however, capable of tilting.

"There was another thing from some other story I heard once," said the pole to no one in particular, "something about, 'It is a far, far better thing that I do....'" With that, the pole shifted its weight and sent its body crashing down onto the road, ahead of the car's path. The thin red board separated and dropped onto the pavement next to it, like a weapon dropped in surrender.

"It Grows Sideways"

 

"Let me tell you a little something, kid," the merchant said, with a glance to one side and a step to the other. "These bean seeds are special. But you can see that already, right? Of course you can. You're smart. You see how this stalk is growing straight out to the side?"

Over and just past the lip of the clay pot he carried reached a tiny young sprout, which pointed toward the next stall as if it were a finger.

"Not only will these beanstalks grow sideways," said the merchant, "they'll grow as far as the eye can see--no, farther. This little guy you see here?" He tipped his head toward the pot. "Why, I just planted those seeds this morning!

"Ever hear stories about the great oceans of the world? Ever dream of crossing them?" With his free hand, the merchant dug in a pouch that hung from his belt and came up with a handful of beans. "What better way to cross them than on your own magic beanstalk bridge? No need to spend your gold on a ship or crew. What'll you say, kid?" He grinned. "Feel like having an adventure?"

Jack looked away from the merchant and drew in air through the spaces between his teeth. "Yeah, see," Jack said, "there's actually another guy who's got something similar going near the entrance to the fair." Like the merchant's plant, he pointed, though not to the adjoining stall but instead across the throng of villagers, to a man in clothes as dark as dirt.

The merchant slumped.

"To tell the truth," Jack continued, "his pitch is a little better than yours, too. I mean, maybe if I had more than one cow to trade, sure, but for now...." Jack backed away with a shrug and said nothing more, leaving the merchant to set down his potted plant and roll up his dusty sleeves, ready to storm across the market square and have an adventure of his own.

"Ribbon"

Imagine if it had been a belt that made me call Jormungand to mind, and what that would mean for the poor sap who unbuckled his belt on the way to the washroom.

 

In Norse mythology, Jormungand, the Midgard Serpent, grew so large that he was able to wrap  around Earth's fat middle like a belt and bite his own tail. According to the Norse, the world is bound by Jormungand's body; the day he releases his tail is the day the world will end.

Oddly enough, it wasn't the sight of a belt that made me think of Jormungand. It was a picture of a ribbon tied around a package, holding in the surprise, and the idea that someone, upon receiving a beautifully wrapped gift, might think of Midgard and hesitate a second before undoing the bow.